


The Grey Mages

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Large Cock, Loss of Virginity, Nonconsenual Mindreading, Public Humiliation, Public Masturbation, Public Nudity, Ritual Public Sex, Sex Magic, Throne Sex, Use of Magic Powers During Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Princess Florabella of Norwellia's horrible, no good, very bad day.





	The Grey Mages

Florabella had lost track of how long she’d spent picking her way through the narrow stone passageways that led down, down, from the castle, into the warren of caves that wove through the hilltop upon which it had been built. She’d twisted her ankle on a loose rock some time ago, making every step since absolute agony.

She wasn’t certain how much longer she could go on.

“If anything happens, dear heart,” her father, King Sebastopol had told her over and over as a child, “if ever you hear the alarm, you are to make straight for your mother’s study, and crawl through the hole under the dressing table. Follow the red pattern along the cave wall until you reach the bottom. There will be a dark river there, and a dock with a boat tied, ready for your escape.”

“Yes, father,” she’d said every time. “But what could ever happen?”

“Nothing. Nothing will ever happen to you, my daughter. But I would be remiss as a father, and as a king, if I did not prepare you for even the most unlikely eventualities.”

King Sebastopol had been loved, but apparently not loved enough. This morning, before the crepuscule of dawn had barely replaced the moonlight, the alarms had awoken Florabella from sweet dreams about one of the handsome older gentlemen of the court—the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and for whom she burned with a secret passion. He’d been stroking her face, running his hand up and down her leg under her dress…

Therefore, she’d been quite annoyed at the interruption, and snapped when her maid, Anya, came running in.

“What is happening?” 

“Invaders! Assassins! Black magic!” Anya had never been able to keep a calm head on her, even at the best of times. “Just now, with my own eyes, I saw soldiers dragging their majesties out the gates, to the execution grounds. Your highness, it is over. Everything is over. You must flee. They will come for you next.”

Florabella had wanted to ask more information, to find a ray of falsehood in all this, because she couldn’t believe it, she _couldn’t_. However, her father had always told her to secure her position first, and ask questions later. Never had his advice seemed more pressing than now. So, she’d risen, tied a bodice loosely over her night-dress, thrown a robe over it, and slipped on some shoes. 

“Follow me.” Her hands had been shaking with such terror that it took three matches before the candle by her bedside had flickered with light. Florabella had taken Anya’s hand and fairly dragged her along. Once in the passageway, Florabella had no longer been able to hope that Anya had been mistaken, or exaggerating. The stench of fresh blood had permeated through the castle, and soldiers wearing all-grey standards with a single green stripe prowled through the corridors. Florabella had stuck to the dark shadows she had liked to hide in as a child as she and her wreck of a maid made their way to her mother’s rooms.

There, they’d found everything been broken and scattered. However, the furniture, heavy and solid in the style of ancient Norwellian craftsmen, had remained in place. Florabella had crawled under the table and twisted the hidden latch just so, the way her father had instructed her as a child.

He had promised her she would never need to use this resource. He had lied.

He’d lied doubly, because when they finally reached the promised dock, she saw five or six soldiers sitting in the boat, waiting. 

Florabella immediately tried to retreat back up into the crevice, but her ankle slowed her down. Three of the soldiers climbed out of the rowboat and grabbed her. Florabella struggled in their arms, but she was no match for them. Anya was too busy screaming to put up the same, albeit futile, level of resistance. A backhanded slap across the face was enough to unbalance her, sending her toppling into the boat. Soon, the soldiers had both girls gagged and straining, trussed like two chickens. The men arranged them back to back in the center of the damp boat. 

One of them, barely a man, with a face like a nasty child, moved his muddy boot across the front of Florabella’s gown, nudging the cold, metal-tipped toe of it into her cleavage, which heaved from heavy breathing, pressing her breasts tightly against the low-cut neckline, threatening all the while to overflow.

“Enough of that, Gareth,” the leader reprimanded. “She’s to be delivered to the Protector untouched and unharmed.”

“Looks like she’s already harmed herself,” another said, pressing his hand against her hurt ankle and laughing at her muffled cry. 

“Didn’t expect a bonus. The maid’s a pretty one,” Gareth said, now turning his lustful eye to Anya.

“Think the Protector will let us have her?” 

“Don’t see why not,” the leader said. “What does he care about the fate of a maid? But I’d wait until he’s seen the princess to make sure.”

“She was always stuck up, for a maid. Liked to slap me when I tried to pinch her ass. Called me garbage.” The soldier leaned down so that his face was level with Anya’s wide, terrified eyes. “Now who’s the garbage?”

Florabella had assumed the attack had come from outside Norwellia, but the soldiers’ accents and conversation betrayed them as local. She looked more closely at her captors. The unknown cloaks had distracted her, but now she recognized the faces of the prince’s fencing master, of the stable boys. Gareth was none other than her father’s cup-bearer. 

Her heart broke, as her father’s must have. The only thing worse than… than _everything_ , was the idea that her father had been betrayed by those around him.

She wondered who this ‘Protector’ was, and if she knew him as well. She most likely did, if he had known to send these soldiers to meet her at the dock. Very few outside the royal family knew of the existence of the caves.

* * *

Instead of taking the cavernous creek westward, they took a fork in the underground river that led them back into the light, under the drawbridge. 

Overhead, black crows circled, and unnatural-looking greenish clouds obscured the sun. The dawn had come up wrong. 

Black magic, indeed.

The soldiers leaped out of the boat and marched Florabella and Anya up the riverbank and into the castle. Florabella kept falling, as her ankle failed to sustain her. The pain was dizzying, nauseating. 

In the end, they hoisted her between two of the tallest soldiers, who carried her across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. They passed hundreds of jeering, vaguely familiar faces, people Florabella had barely ever deigned to notice. They were all sporting the grey standard. Now, in the light, and taken in concert with the green sky, she recognized it for what it was: the sign of the Grey Mages. This invasion, this entire nightmare of a day, was their handiwork.

She’d thought the mages all killed or banished by her grandfather, long before she was born. 

On the way to the throne room, she saw a body draped over the side of inner walls, hung like a flag. His front faced the wall, but his head had been swiveled on his neck to face the complete opposite direction. 

The face was that of her brother, Blondel. 

There were no other wounds on his body, no blood or cuts associated with the horrible disfigurement. 

He had been killed by magic, as she would be. 

“He cried like a baby, that one,” Gareth taunted her. He’d caught her looking up at the corpse. “Begged and pleaded. Wet himself. I wish the Protector had made it hurt more.”

Florabella wished she could spit in his face, but the gag prevented her. Instead, she gave him her haughtiest look, knowing that he had an injunction against taking his retribution. She took one last look at Blondel’s handsome face before dropping her head. She would not cry, she _wouldn’t_.

The interior of the palace sparkled as brightly as it ever had on a feast day. It didn’t bear the signs of an armed invasion and conquest at all. However, the subtle scent of spoiled roses and cold ashes revealed the presence of magic. Magic had cleaned it all up, made it ready for this Protector of theirs.

When they finally hauled her and Anya into the throne room, Florabella looked up at the dais and saw her father’s enormous seat occupied.

It was General Holbein. 

From across the room, he must have seen the shock, the hurt, the fury on her face, because he began to laugh—a twisted, heartbreaking version of the laugh she had known all her life, the laugh she had so often delighted in eliciting. Her father’s best friend, her uncle in spirit, more beloved than her ones by blood. Beloved most especially by her, in ways she had never confessed, not even to Anya or Blondel.

“Remove the gag,” he said, employing that deep, honeyed voice to devastating effect. “I want to hear her surprise.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to question. She wanted to cry. But she knew he wanted her to speak, to do all of these things, and so, she controlled herself and remained stonily silent. 

“No, no, my will-o-wisp, that won’t do,” he said with a wave of his hand, and how _dare_ he use the endearment he had called her as a child. How _dare_ he?

The words in her head echoed louder than they should have, and at the same time, she saw all the soldiers begin to laugh.

“I dare because I can,” he replied, and that was how she knew that he had reached into her head with his magic and projected the thoughts for all to hear. “The king was a blind idiot, married an even greater one, and together they brought their children up to be the blindest fools in the kingdom. He sent me to infiltrate and spy on what was left of the Grey Mages, had me live with them, learn from them, for _years_. I’m not sure how he expected me not to have learned their ways, or grown fond of them. Of course I would bring them back to power as soon as I was able. Only a fool—the kind of fool your father was—would not have at least harbored suspicion. And now the fool is dead. You are the last of that dumb brood.”

Florabella bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, but the entirety of the palace still heard the sobs of grief that she held in. Never in her sheltered life had anyone troubled her at all, and now here she was, enduring the worst kind of violation. 

“Do you really think that is the worst?” the leader of the soldiers from the boat yelled. “Oh, princess, you’ve got another think coming.”

General Holbein rose looking very tall and imposing in his long grey robes with the green piping along the folds. “Bring her here.”

“What about the maid?” a few of the soldiers called out as Anya was carried, like a sack of flour, up to the throne.

“She is my gift to you.” 

A great cheer went up. Half the soldiers wasted no time in dragging the sobbing Anya out of the room. The other half must have either satisfied themselves earlier in the day, or saw that the competition for Anya’s… time… would be too fierce, or perhaps they hated the princess and her family enough to put watching her humiliation over their pleasure, or perhaps base curiosity outweighed base lust. Whatever their individual motivations, a sizable number remained. 

The soldiers brought Florabella within three feet of the throne. She stood defiantly on one leg, holding the hurt foot a couple of inches off the ground. 

“Fetch some cloth. Dear Florabella’s ankle is in need of tending.” 

At the command, someone went running to obey. 

Holbein leaned forward and smiled. As he did so, his handsome face fell into ray of sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window, lending him a greenish, ethereal tint. “You won’t need that dress anymore.”

She could feel the straps falling down her shoulders, the bodice unlacing itself. Florabella desperately tried to pull everything back up, keep it on, but the magic was stronger. Soon, she stood naked in the throne room, her clothes and underclothes puddled at her feet, amidst the soldiers’ cacophony of wolf whistles. 

“Didn’t know princesses were so hairy down there,” she heard one of them say. And then, “Her tits are even better than they looked peeking out of those dresses.” Followed by, “Thought that plump ass was all bustle,” and, “You thought wrong, my friend.” 

Hobein stood up and walked to her. As though she weighed no more than she had as a child, he scooped her up and took her back to the throne. He spread his legs wide within his heavy velvet robes to make room for her in his lap. 

A man had already returned with a long strip of white linen. Holbein directed him to kneel at the foot of the throne.

“Bind it tight,” he ordered. Then, with a mockery of his old smile, he looked at her and promised, “You’ll be right as rain in a minute.”

No, she thought. Nothing would ever be right again.

“Not for you, it won’t!” one of the soldiers yelled.

Holbein shifted this way and that, adjusting Florabella on his lap while the man bound her ankle. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Just like old times, bouncing on my knee as I feed you treats.”

To illustrate his words, he reached for the plate of food—her family’s crest along the edges had been magically filed down and away—and chose a strawberry. He pressed the pointed tip of it to her tightly closed lips. 

“Oh, come, will-o-wisp. This is the least of the things that you will be made to suckle on today. Enjoy the sweetness while you can. Eat. You’ll need your strength.” 

Florabella tried to bite his fingers as they shoved the berry into her mouth, but he was quick, and withdrew them quickly, leaving her snapping at air. The berry tasted sour.

The thought must have projected again, because he chastised, “Don’t be spoiled, princess. It is not yet fully season for them. You cannot expect everything to be as ripe as you.”

The soldiers laughed. 

In trying to scramble away, scramble for purchase, anything, Florabella’s palms rubbed the velvet the wrong way, eliciting a chill that trickled down to her toes. A cold breeze came in through the upper windows and ran across her breasts, causing her skin to goose-pimple and her nipples to stick painfully out. She had never felt so exposed, here, in this room of fully clothed men. 

“If that is what is troubling you,” he replied to the loudly voiced thought, “I can expose myself as well. We can match.” He continued to hold her in place on his lap with one strong—impossibly strong—arm while he used the other to reposition himself again and open the front of his robes to reveal his muscular chest and his large cock, which lay soft between his strong, tanned legs. 

At the sight of it, Florabella choked on the second berry that he pushed into her mouth. Gods, how she had once longed for something like this. As soon as she had begun to develop into a woman, as soon as her courses had come upon her and her breasts had started to swell, her regard for Holbein, her childhood’s favorite grown-up playmate, had shifted accordingly. Where once she had only seen his face as happy and welcoming, she had started to notice the sharp planes of his handsomeness, the strength in his massive shoulders, the way the muscles of his legs flexed in his breeches as he rode. The cock that the recent fashion for tight breeches had done nothing to hide. She had lain in bed in recent nights, feeling warm all over after watching him joust, or give toasts at dinner. She’d dreamed of him crawling into her bed, holding her as tightly as he was now, cupping her breasts just so, lapping at her nipples with his tongue, rubbing at her cunt with his long fingers, fingers that…

Oh gods, no. Fingers that were teasing her cunt right this minute. Lips that were right now suckling her painfully hard nipples. 

“Good, very good,” he purred. “Think of that. Think of all those times you wanted this, wanted me like this. Get yourself wet. It will go easier for you if you do.”

Florabella tried to think of anything else, of mathematics or the stench of horse manure or the pain in her tightly bound ankle—anything to distract her from the warmth of his touch, from even _thinking_ about it, since he had turned her thoughts into enemies.

“No, no, dear. That won’t work. You can’t escape your own mind. No one can. But if it will help, I’ll turn the magic off for a minute.” 

Florabella sobbed. She could feel herself getting wet, could feel the tingling in her belly as he rubbed her cunt, slipping a finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he purred encouragingly. 

The soldiers had gone mostly quiet, agog. Some of them were adjusting themselves through their breeches, fidgeting with lust.

“You may touch yourselves. Relax. Enjoy yourselves,” Holbein announced. “This ceremony is as much for you as it is for me,” 

Everyone rapidly obeyed. They leaned against the pillars, sat on the floor with their legs spread, took out their cocks, spat into their hands, stroked themselves as they gazed up at him toying with her. 

A ceremony? Florabella wondered. As promised, he had given her a respite from the public broadcasting of her thoughts, but must have retained a direct line to her mind, because he answered.

“Yes, a ceremony. A conquering mage must claim a child of the deposed in order to solidify his magic over the land. Here,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his cock. “Stroke this. I’ll picture someone pretty doing it. I would have much preferred Blondel for this whole business—he was very beautiful, got all the looks in the family, I’d say—but his whoring had left him diseased, sullied, unfit for use.”

That as the final straw. Not only was Florabella’s father and whole family dead, not only was the life she’d known completely over, not only was she going to be raped, horribly, publicly… But even worse, the man doing it—the man she’d once wanted above all others—didn’t want her. Couldn’t even get hard without thinking of something or someone better.

She’d never imagined that could make a situation like this worse, but somehow it did. 

He must have heard her, but didn’t even care enough about her to respond. Continuing, he said, “But you, you will do splendidly. Virgins were always best for these sorts of things.”

“I’m not!” she said, the first words she’d uttered since being taken. Her first words, and a lie. Valiantly, she caused even herself to believe it, reaching for the old fantasies, convincing herself they were real, that she’d been had every which way by all the men who had ever captured her fancy.

“A good effort, but I know better than anyone what has and has not entered you. I was captain of your guard. I personally saw to your preservation. Now hush. You think too loud. It’s putting me off.” He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, rocking himself to hardness in her reluctant hand. “Mmm, yes, Blondel. That’s it. Very nice.”

He’d even stopped sucking at her breasts, stopped touching her cunt, most likely to better pretend that it was her brother’s hard male body in his grasp instead of hers. 

Florabella wished he had simply killed her instead of submitting her to this humiliation, made all the worse by the twisted heartbreak.

When he was hard and huge and dripping in her hand, he opened his eyes again. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he said very calmly. “It’s going to hurt and it’s going to bleed, and you’re going to hate it, will-o-wisp, but it won’t end until you take your pleasure. The magic won’t work otherwise. So, I want you to touch yourself as I do it. I want you to touch yourself and think of me as you once did, until you come as hard as you did under your covers.” 

“Never,” she whispered. The thought of contributing to her own debasement, of touching herself for the pleasure of this rabble… It was unconscionable.

“Then the fucking will never stop. Even if I have to order in some entertainment to distract me from your face enough to stay hard.” 

Florabella shivered as he lifted her a few inches to reposition his cock at her entrance. Underneath her, she could feel blunt head of it, so horribly big, peeping out of its foreskin. She could feel the wiry hair surrounding it tickling her backside as he pushed prodded and jabbed in an effort to find her entrance. She braced herself for the push, tried her best not to cry out when it breached her. 

She failed. Her lips parted and a moan escaped her. Her eyes fell on a man who came from the sight of Holbein pushing into her for the first time.

It was too big, too much. Florabella felt stifled, broken. 

“Aw, it ain’t that bad, princess. It won’t break you. There are worse things in life than getting fucked by a nice, big cock.” 

Florabella groaned. Holbein must have reinstated the projections. 

“Simply an incentive to help you help me get this over with,” he explained. “Touch yourself.” 

He moved her fingers into the thatch of hair between his legs, forced her to feel where he had finally pushed in all the way. He slid down in his chair and planted his feet more firmly on the ground to gain more leverage. In this position, he was able to thrust up into her with more power. Every push felt like it might kill her. 

“Look at how her tits bounce,” someone said.

“Rub it, princess,” a soldier called.

“Tell us how it feels, princess,” another said.

“Yes, give us a narration,” Holbein agreed. “I think that would be very nice for the men.”

Florabella knew by now that there was no escaping her own mind, no way out but to commit to the present. And so, she spoke, using her voice, which she could control, instead of her thoughts. She began rubbing as instructed.

“It hurts,” she said querulously, with more and more strength. “But the rubbing makes it go in easier.”

“That’s it,” Holbein muttered. “That’s it, my pretty. God so tight on my cock. Your sweet arsehole was made for me.” 

She knew he was thinking of her brother, pretending her cunt was his arsehole. She refused to let him. If she had to be here, unable to retreat into her mind, she’d make sure as hell he did as well. She moved his hands from around her waist, moved one to her cunt and another to squeeze her breast. 

He startled, opening his eyes and looking confused. 

“If you’re going to fuck me, then fuck me,” she said. “Not my brother.”

The soldiers loved that. 

“Look at how she wants it.” 

“She’s so wet for it. I can see her glistening.”

“She almost looks pretty when she’s angry.” 

Furious at her insult, Holbein slapped her, but he stayed present. He fucked her harder and harder until she almost fell out of the throne. She actually did at one point, but he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back up, back onto his cock. Her fingers and the insides of her thighs had grown tacky with blood from her maidenhead, but she ignored it and rubbed anyway. She rubbed herself with such rapid strokes that it almost hurt, but she could feel her pleasure growing, despite herself. 

Her legs had begun to quiver, and the hand that was not furiously rubbing her cunt squeezed his knees in an effort to maintain her balance. She could feel Holbein panting beneath her. A perverse part of her delighted to feel him getting, if possible, even harder, throbbing within her, even though he obviously didn’t want to. It was the sight of him being made to enjoy his own rape of her that finally did it. Gasping and clenching and hitting her ankle against the wooden leg of the throne so painfully that it almost whited out her vision, she screamed out her unwanted orgasm. Almost immediately, she felt Holbein shudder and thrust home one last time. Hot jets of seed flowed into her, over and over, more of it than she’d ever know a man could produce. Certainly more than the soldiers in front of her. 

The men cheered. Holbein slumped underneath her. She could feel come trickling down her leg, mixing with the blood there. She tried to get up, but fell down before the throne, spent. 

Holbein seemed taller now, and his eyes glowed green as the magic of their coupling did everything he’d hoped it would. The sky outside grew even darker and greener.

Norwellia was doomed.

“Very good, Florabella. That’s is all I need from you.” Holbein looked at the audience. “You may make use of her as you wish. But first, someone fetch me some wine. And a boy.”

Florabella blanched as she felt the first hand touch her.


End file.
